by M J Porter
“Your son and I were married, before he was king, before he believed he’d ever be king. He became cruel to me once he was named as king, and Lord Ælfgar’s wife helped me to escape his wrath, if only to save our unborn child. I’ve been in hiding ever since.”
While much was missed from the explanation, again, it was apparent that Lady Ælfgifu understood her son too well, and needed none of the gaps filling in.
“So you’re my son’s wife, and this is my son’s son.” Half incredulous, Lady Ælfgifu held out a hand to touch the child’s sleeping face. A wave of tenderness swept over her, and she stood abruptly, almost knocking her chair and Alfifa flying in her desire to see the boy.
“He’s called Ælfwine, after my own father,” Edith explained, but Ælfgar was unsure whether Lady Ælfgifu still listened or not. Her face had softened on seeing the bundle, and he watched her hesitate, and then reach out to as though to touch him, only to stop herself.
She turned to Ælfgar, her face showing many different emotions, the overriding one a demand for the truth.
“Is this true? Tell me, is he truly Harald’s son?”
If Alfifa was upset by the question, she didn’t let it show, standing quiet and stoic at being named a whore.
“Yes, My Lady. Assuredly. There’s no denying it. I pledge my oath on it.”
“May I, may I hold him?” Now Ælfgifu turned to Alfifa, as though she’d not just demanded proof of her honour, and almost begged.
“Of course, My Lady. Why don’t you sit? I’ll bring him to you.”
Ælfgar felt mostly redundant, as he watched Alfifa settle the grandmother of her child back in the chair she’d knocked over. Carefully Edith came and laid the child in Ælfgifu’s open arms. Yet, for a moment, Ælfgifu paused, staring instead at Edith.
“I thought you dead,” Ælfgifu offered by way of an apology. Edith shrugged.
“No, I was with my daughter and my grandson. In hiding.” There was no bitterness in Edith’s reply. If anything, there was sympathy, and Ælfgifu absorbed it rather than rebuffing it. Ælfgar thought they must once have been very close friends.
The small boy didn’t stir as Edith handed him over to Lady Ælfgifu, and such a mass of emotions passed over her face that he knew his actions had been the correct ones, even if the circumstances were dire.
As silent tears spilt down Ælfgifu’s cheeks, Ælfgar made his way to the far side of the hearth. His men were quietly being fed and given drinks, and he joined his cousins, and the three men of his household troop who’d made this strange journey. He was surplus to requirement now. Lady Ælfgifu held the promise of the future in her hands, even if, for the present, that was hard to accept.
“She took the news well?” Wulfstan asked, having pieced together what was happening, and Ælfgar smiled sadly.
“As well as she could,” he admitted.
“Is the boy truly the king’s son?” Ælfwine demanded.
“Yes. He was not a kind man when the mood took him. My wife and I took action to intervene, to protect the child and his mother. Knowing what we know now, I’m only too pleased to have had my hand forced.”
“What do you think will happen now?” Wulfstan asked.
Ælfgar didn’t know if he spoke of the future for England or the future of the small child, but he considered his answer carefully.
“I’ll advise Lady Ælfgifu to do something unexpected. Harthacnut will want revenge, so will Lady Emma. I would, I would,” and as he cast about for an answer, a slow smile formed on his face. “If I were Lady Ælfgifu I’d seek sanctuary, at the Danish Court. Lady Estrid will welcome the child with open arms; after all, he’s the first grandchild of Cnut. She’s the only person powerful enough to truly protect him, and her mother.”
Wulfstan’s eyes lit at the prospect. “I do believe you’ve hit upon the only answer that makes any sense. Suggest it to the ladies, and if they agree, I’ll arrange safe passage for them through Orkning and Olaf, and escort them myself. I’d like to see Denmark.”
Ælfgar eyes his cousin with affection.
“I thought you’d say I was mad!” Ælfgar laughed as he spoke, the first time he’d smiled since he’d seen Harald’s cold, dead body. Ælfwine chuckled as well.
“Well you’re not going on your bloody own,” Ælfwine complained, and Ælfgar settled to his ale and warm pottage.
The day had been dire, the future was uncertain, but his cousins had a plan, and that was always a good thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
March AD1040 Oxford Leofric
When Leofric received word that his son had returned to Oxford, he left his home with heavy steps. He knew that Lady Ælfgifu would be filled with as many questions as everyone else about the king’s death. And for her, he’d have to be honest.
In the brief two days that had passed since the discovery of Harald’s savaged body, he and Earl Godwine had been kept too busy to honestly consider what they were doing. The future was hanging there, unresolved, but it would have to wait.
Leofric was grateful that winter still clung on, making travel difficult. That meant there would be delays in people being informed of the king’s death, and hopefully, the seas would still be too treacherous for Harthacnut to risk a crossing from Bruges, even if the news did reach him that his half-brother was dead.
Walking into Oxford once more, he watched the people around him. Most were subdued. It didn’t take great thought to realise that England would soon have a Danish king once more. When Cnut had first died, that would probably have been seen as desirable, but the English had grown used to an English king in the intervening. They knew, as sure as Leofric did, that if Harthacnut came to England, they’d be punished for preferring his brother to him. The new king would not be overly enamoured of his English subjects.
But before he could even face that eventuality, Leofric needed to address the king’s mother.
He and Lady Ælfgifu had shared a torturous relationship. They’d been allies and almost enemies, and they’d grudgingly learned to work together, only to then distrust each other once more. His wife was her closest friend, and it was that which had saved them from doing irretrievable harm to each other. That, and Cnut’s trust in him that he’d always speak up for his replaced wife.
Resolving himself to yet another problematic twist in their relationship, he straightened his back and entered the king’s hall. The king’s body had been removed to the church, St Michael’s, where the monks prayed for the soul of the king. Leofric was still convinced he could smell the seeping blood on entering the hall, despite it being cleaned, and then washed again. He doubted he’d ever forget witnessing the king’s mutilated body.
The hall was far busier than the last time he’d been inside, and yet there was a clear space, and he knew Lady Ælfgifu would be at its centre.
He strode forward, looking for both Earl Godwine and his son. There hadn’t yet been enough time for Earl Siward to journey from York, but Earl Thuri had been sighted in Oxford.
Leofric wished to speak with his son before he saw Lady Ælfgifu, but Ælfgar was nowhere to be found. Instead, he walked into an on-going argument between Earl Godwine and the king’s mother. It looked to have reached a stage where only the intervention of another would bring it to an end, but still, he hesitated to do so.
The affiliation between the earl and the king’s mother had never been good, even though it should have been, as they’d been childhood victims of King Æthelred’s violent outbursts depriving them of their father’s. For all that, they were aloof from each other, even more untrusting than others. Perhaps they understood too well the extreme lengths the other would take to claw back what they’d have taken from them.
“My Lord Leofric,” Lady Ælfgifu, despite her harsh words to Earl Godwine, greeted him cordially, before Leofric could attempt an escape. “I’d thank you, for your wonderful son,” the words, so unexpected, brought a faint flush of embarrassment to his face. Could she genuinely mean it, or was this
just another of her games to humiliate Earl Godwine?
“My Lady,” he bowed low, she was still the king’s mother, even if that king was dead. Ælfgifu was, despite her grief, dressed as the king’s mother, her thick cloak seeming to engulf her, its luxuriousness hard to miss.
“I’m sorry the news he carried was so distressful.” In this Leofric spoke the truth. He was immensely proud of his son for volunteering to go to Lady Ælfgifu, and also in awe of him. His son, a man grown, with his own sons, but he’d always be Leofric’s little boy, and even now his exploits amazed him, just as when he’d learned to walk and speak.
“Yes,” for a moment her face clouded, and Ælfgifu worked hard to keep her grief from showing on her hard face. “It was not expected. But he’s an honourable young man. I’m pleased he was my son’s foster-brother. But I fear we must speak about the future, rather than the past.” Again, those words were harshly forced passed her lips, and Leofric watched her with trepidation. She’d always been an emotional woman. Her life, with Cnut as her husband, with him married to another woman, had never been easy on her.
Even Cnut’s death had been hard. And now this. Both of her sons were dead, whereas her rival, Lady Emma, still had her son with Cnut, and more, she also still had one of her son’s with King Æthelred, and of course, a daughter as well, who’d had her own children. Lady Emma had a dynasty. Ælfgifu had nothing.
As a man who’d only ever had one son, he could sympathise with the unfairness of it all.
“Come, we must sit,” as Ælfgifu spoke, her arm swept from side to side, her wishes clear. Hastily servants moved people away from the small triumvirate of herself, Earl Leofric and Earl Godwine, and they were all settled with chairs, food and wine. The argument between Earl Godwine and Ælfgifu seemed to have been forgotten about.
Leofric sat hesitantly. He’d have preferred to speak with his son before anything else was decided, but Ælfgar had just disappeared.
Earl Godwine, not quite as quick to recover from whatever argument he’d been having with Lady Ælfgifu, simmered in his chair. His hand held a beautiful wine goblet, and Leofric winced at the reminder of Harald’s terrible death.
Leofric thought they should perhaps have removed all the wine goblets from the hall before Lady Ælfgifu arrived.
“I understand my son left a will, and wishes for his burial were made clear.”
Lady Ælfgifu’s voice was firm as she spoke, an attempt to keep control of herself.
“My Lady, he did, yes. Westminster.”
“A strange choice,” she offered, a frown forming on her perplexed face.
“I believe he wished to be buried where King Swein was first proclaimed king of England, and where his father learned that he too would be king of England following King Edmund’s death.” Leofric offered the explanation simply.
“Ah, then that makes more sense.”
“Had you hoped he’d choose Gainsborough and be closer to you?” Earl Godwine demanded, with all the tact of a cornered boar being hunted.
“No, no, not at all,” the good lady smiled through yet another difficult memory, and Leofric considered that whatever the previous argument had been about, it had made Godwine deeply insensitive.
“And when will it take place,” she asked the question, her eyes suddenly downcast.
“A procession, from here to London will begin in seven days. We hope that will give Earl Siward enough time to arrive from the North.”
“So, quickly then,” she spoke softly, and Leofric fell silent. He’d expected any number of emotions from her, but this calm acceptance wasn’t one of them. Just what had his son said to her?
“And the kingdom?” now she spoke more powerfully, as though moving away from the actual subject of her son’s death freed her from grief.
Earl Leofric looked to Godwine. They’d touched briefly on the subject but, as with Harald’s death, they were left with little choice.
“Harthacnut is in Bruges, with his mother. He plans to invade England, claim it from his half-brother. Harald’s unfortunate death will save England from a war it doesn’t want.” Leofric spoke the words as concisely as possible. He felt it would be easier coming from his lips than Godwine’s. Even now the man sat with his arms folded and a scowl upon his downturned face.
“The Witan will vote to make Harthacnut king then?”
“It was his father’s wishes.” Leofric scowled at Godwine then. The man had the sympathy of a rutting bull.
“Of course,” Lady Ælfgifu demurred, but fury was quickly replacing her sorrow.
“And you, My Lady. Have you made any plans for the future?” Again, Godwine prodded at an open wound and Leofric wished he’d stop.
“I do, My Lord. Plans that are not yet formalised, but which I hope will be set in motion soon.”
Leofric was surprised to hear that. A quick glance at Lady Ælfgifu noted a softness had returned to her face, and once more Leofric looked for his son. What had Ælfgar said to her? What had he arranged that had so affected her? Leofric only wished he knew.
“But for now, it’s my son’s funeral that concerns me. Not the future. Lord Ælfgar was most discreet, but still, I understand the nature of his death. Just before we let the moment pass, and never speak of it again,” she directed that at Earl Godwine, her tone brokering no response.
“I‘d ask the question that must have been plaguing you. Are we sure, or as sure as we can be, that this was not a murder carried out on the orders of, well, the list is almost exhaustive? Harthacnut, the Queen Dowager, or even perhaps, your good self?” Again, her question was directed at Earl Godwine, and Leofric wished he could smile at the man’s discomfort, but for the time being, they were working together, for the good of England. Lady Ælfgifu’s jibe could not be enjoyed.
“I was in the room, My Lady, I don’t deny it, but I confess, I’d drunk too much, and was insensible.” As Godwine spoke, all traces of apology left his tone, and he even sat straighter, his chest puffing out before him. Leofric felt his own eyes roll at the display of an arrogant swan and worked hard to keep his gaze away from Lady Ælfgifu. Whatever their arguments, they’d always agreed that Godwine was a total idiot.
“You heard nothing, at all?” the lady’s voice was incredulous, and not for the first time, Leofric found himself wondering the same thing.
He’d tried hard to put all his doubts and worries behind him, but it was almost impossible. Earl Godwine was a slippery fish. There was no other way to account for his continued position so close to King Cnut, and even, somehow, King Harald. He’d have to do the same in the next few months, simpering before King Harthacnut, and Leofric was concerned by just how far the earl would go.
Earl Godwine had been implicated in the murder of a rival to the throne already. Poor Lord Alfred. Even now, Leofric grieved when he thought of the broken and beaten man. He still berated himself for not finding Alfred sooner.
“Nothing, My Lady. I confess the shock was great when I woke and found the king in his … his condition. Earl Leofric can attest to that.”
Leofric bowed his head low.
“Certainly, Earl Godwine was beyond speech when he came for me.”
This earned Leofric a calculated glance, one he didn’t miss. There was, as Lady Ælfgifu had quickly realised, more than ample opportunity for Earl Godwine to have both killed her son, and tried to cover it up before anyone else was summoned.
Yet, before she could ask more questions, Leofric looked up and noticed his wife’s appearance in the king’s hall.
She rushed to her longtime ally and friend and the pair quickly embraced. Leofric knew Lady Ælfgifu would have no further use for him, or Godwine that day. Yet, as he turned to walk away, she surprised him.
“Earl Leofric, I’d thank you once more, and have it be known that I appreciate you’ve walked a difficult path since the death of my husband, King Cnut. I’m sure he’d be honoured by all you’ve done for his sons, and of course, for his wives.” Leofric bowed once mor
e, much lower this time. His heart was racing in his chest as he finally walked away, to speak with his son who’d appeared with his mother.
Lady Ælfgifu, and her stubborn ways, too often obliterated her powerful intellect from his line of sight, and yet there it was, once more. She would, had it not been for Lady Emma, have made her husband a fine queen of England.
So many might-have-beens. The past was a torment of broken possibilities, and yet the future, well, he saw little chance for hope in it.
Harthacnut would come with his father’s rage and spite, and none of his tempering political acumen.
England was in for a difficult time, and he’d be punished for his role in Harald’s reign, there was no doubt of that. And yet, well, it gave him some mild comfort to know that his actions were appreciated. Even if not by the people who still held power.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
March AD1040 Oxford Ælfgar
Ælgar watched his father carefully. It was often best to.
His father was a man of rare rash decision making, but when it came, Ælfgar realised that the ‘tells’ were often there, if he only knew where to look. But, on this occasion, he wasn’t sure his father would act irrationally. It was just best to be cautious.
The funeral for Harald had been arranged quickly, but not with indecent haste, and now the Witan had been summoned back to Oxford to discuss the future of England. Not that there was any great disagreement as to what should happen now.
No, most accepted that England would soon have a Danish king once more. The only real cause of worry was what Harthacnut would do to punish the English, for it was unthinkable that he wouldn’t, for the delay to him being accepted as king. In his own eyes, Harthacnut had been king as soon as his father died. But that hadn’t happened.
That wasn’t what currently worried his father. No, he’d finally been forced to explain to his father all that he’d spoken to Lady Ælfgifu about, and his father was, not surprisingly, flustered by it.
